Vaughan Williams 150

A revised version of an article from 2018.

‘And I saw a new heaven and a new earth…’. From Sancta Civitas (1928), the composer’s favourite of his own choral works. 

Today, 12th October 2022, is the hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the birth of Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872–1958).  Was he England’s greatest composer?  He has plenty of strong competition of course, and perhaps half the fun is never quite to settle the question — but as far as I am concerned, if anyone is to match Vaughan Williams, then they too will have to draw me, irresistibly, again and again, yet in a different way every time, into a distinctive, great-hearted, masterfully-crafted musical world that is all its own.  He is in first place in my book.

Embed from Getty Images

Vaughan Williams photographed at home (The White Gates, Dorking, Surrey) in January, 1949.

His was a life that, in many ways, took place in reverse.  He emerged as a composer relatively late — not completing his first symphony until he was thirty-five — but from then on never diminished in his  output, even intensifying as he aged.  Those who might have perceived in his fifth symphony (premièred in 1942, his seventieth year) a mellowing in age, or a mood of valediction, would hardly have suspected that this was actually the half-way mark, and that there were four more symphonies to follow.  Throughout his last decade — well into his eighties — he seemed unstoppable, completing his three final symphonies, the opera The Pilgrim’s Progress (a lifetime’s work), concertos for harmonica and tuba and much more, all the while maintaining an energetic social life, both conducting and attending concerts.  And it was not only musically that he was thriving: after the death of his wife Adeline in 1951 after decades of illness, he was rejuvenated by a second marriage to the poet and playwright Ursula Wood (whose poetry he set to music).  So he seems almost to have been cut off in his prime, though he lived to eighty-five.

Music for the film 49th Parallel.

I admire Vaughan Williams in the first place for the most straightforward reason: because the sound of so much of his music appeals to me so directly.  Time and again he wove melodies, harmonies, textures and cadences masterfully together in the service of beauty, beauty for its own sake.  This beauty often seems so self-evident that I would struggle to explain it.  Yet that first appeal, having drawn me in, makes me all the more willing to listen again more carefully for details I have missed, or to brave the composer’s more challenging works.  In that way he has taught me a great deal about the more intellectual side of ‘serious music’: its forms, its structures, and the depth of expression that they make possible.  So, for example, I have found my life enriched both by the tuneful English Folk-song Suite, which I have loved since I was small, and by the Fourth and Sixth Symphonies, which I discovered in my twenties.  Yet in all his works the same personality is discernible: a companion and a teacher and a seer, who may challenge but never disregards the listener.

The third movement (Scherzo) of the London Symphony, played by the Spanish Radio and Television Orchestra and conducted by Carlos Kalmar.

This capacity for both simplicity and complexity is only part of another remarkable aspect of Vaughan Williams: his sheer versatility, or his ‘tremendous range’, as Vernon Handley put it.  He wrote music of so many flavours, for so many purposes, and all so convincingly, that it is sometimes hard to believe that they flowed from a single pen.  Is the same man really responsible for the tranquil Greensleeves Fantasia and the enthralling anguish of the fourth symphony; for the diabolical chortling of Satan’s Dance of Triumph (from his ballet Job) and the tiny jewel of an anthem, O Taste and See?  He went off searching for ideas in all sorts of directions, but always came back to his own distinctive drawing-board: his work always bears, somewhere or other, the hall-mark of one and the same personality.  There is Vaughan Williams the collector of folk songs, Vaughan Williams the scorer of films, Vaughan Williams the compiler of the English Hymnal.  His music might be sacred or secular, it might last for four minutes or four movements, it might summon full chorus and orchestra or call simply for a solo violin and piano.  For his harmonies he drew on everything from Tudor polyphony to thirties dance-band music; he also experimented with sonority, including a wind machine in his Seventh Symphony, a flügelhorn in his Ninth and ‘all the ’phones and ’spiels known to the composer’ in the Eighth.  And then there are the moods that pass over his music, as many and as various as the English weather’s: serene or furious, reserved or exuberant; proliferating with detail or hanging austerely in clear air. 

 One of the best ways of hearing many of these moods is in that eighth symphony — even in its first movement alone, which is constructed entirely around the very first four notes played.  Sir Mark Elder conducts the Hallé Orchestra.

Another characteristic of his music is — I can think of no subtler word — its manliness.  So much of it seems to express some aspect of, and to be so evidently the work of, the heart and spirit of a man.  In other words, there is a particularly masculine warmth, an outward robustness, a heartiness, a full-bloodedness about it all.  That is not to suggest that he did not mean his music for men and women alike, nor to assume that it was conscious or deliberate — it is simply part of the character and colour of his music.  His work is shot through with the vigour, the spirituality, the moods, the quickness, the temper, the restlessness, the passions, the solitary questing of manhood.

The second movement of the Concerto for Violin and Strings (1925; originally Concerto Accademico).   André Previn conducts the London Symphony Orchestra; James Buswell is the soloist.

Then there is his Englishness, the quality of his music which is perhaps most often commented on.  Vaughan Williams is credited with reviving and developing a particularly English style of music, one that was in contrast with the German idiom of Beethoven and Brahms and Mendelssohn that had prevailed before.  Vaughan Williams was interested in Tudor polyphony and traditional folk-song and the music of ordinary people, not for shallow or jealous reasons, but in a search for authenticity, and in a spirit of revival of old forgotten things and celebration of the particular — and it worked: his music sounds like home.  Hear how well it goes with Shakespeare, or with Chesterton; see how his hymns and carols have passed straight into the canon.  And he was keenly aware of the threats that England faced in his own day — war, the destruction of landscape, the decline in spirit.  Indeed, the sheer spiritual exhaustion of the modern world in general, sated with banality to the point of grief, is prefigured in much of his music.  Hear, for instance, the desolate passages that close the first movement of the Ninth Symphony:

Against despair and nihilism, though, Vaughan Williams was the great champion of the human spirit, and the idea of the lone pilgrim persevering against the odds preoccupied him all his life.  His reverence for folk-culture is precisely an example of this.  There is surely much to be said for founding ‘high art’ on traditional, unaffected idioms: familiar, time-worn songs keep high culture rooted in earth, while transfiguring the familiar elevates and enriches the popular culture.  And even as Vaughan Williams broke new ground with his symphonies and cantatas, he was content, I think, to be a servant of his age.  His heavy involvement in the Leith Hill Musical Festival, and his prolific output of hymns and film-scores and ‘practical music’ (notably the Concerto Grosso for musicians of varying accomplishment, or the Household Music written in wartime for whatever instruments were to hand) reveal a profoundly public-spirited man, unashamed of belonging to a particular time and place, and lending his talents to the service of others.  He himself was quite firm about this: ‘The composer must not shut himself up and think about art,’ he declared; ‘he must live with his fellows and make his art an expression of the whole community.’

For all these reasons and more besides, it is Vaughan Williams whom I hero-worship as Britain’s greatest composer.  Other composers may have shared many of the qualities I have described, but it is  only in him that they are all united.  His music, in all its variety, sounds as fresh as ever, and is still working its magic on lovers of beauty in new generations.  May it continue to lighten lives for centuries to come.

Ballad from the Suite for Viola and Orchestra

Sixty years since Vaughan Williams’ death

'Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more’: Vaughan Williams’ setting of lines from Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’.

Today, 26th August, is the sixtieth anniversary of the death of Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872–1958).  Was he England’s greatest composer?  The question will not be easily settled, and maybe half the fun is never quite to do so.  If, as is not an uncommon view, he vies with Edward Elgar and Benjamin Britten for the title, then he has plenty of competition.  All I know is this: if Britten or even Elgar are to compete with Vaughan Williams, then they too in due course will have to come to draw me, again and again, yet in a different way every time, into an enlightening, melodic and unfailingly distinctive musical world.  For now Vaughan Williams, both the composer and the man, is in first place in my book.

His was a life that in many ways took place in reverse.  His emergence as a composer came relatively late — he did not complete his first symphony until the age of thirty-five — but once he had done so, his output was constant and unwaning; indeed, his music seemed to intensify as he aged.  Those who perceived in his fifth symphony — premièred in 1942, his seventieth year — a mellowing in age, or even a valedictory overtone, would hardly have suspected that this was actually the half-way mark.  All through his last decade he seemed unstoppable — in the 1950s alone he added the final three to his total of nine symphonies, brought to fruition his opera The Pilgrim’s Progress, completed concertos for harmonica and tuba, and wrote music for Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation, all the while continuing to conduct and attend concerts and musical events.  And it was not only musically that he thrived in the autumn of his life: after the death in 1951 of his wife Adeline, whom for decades he had had to watch gradually succumbing to arthritis, he was rejuvenated by a second marriage to Ursula Wood, a poet and playwright (and muse, whose poetry he set to music).  So, although he lived to eighty-five, he seems almost to have been cut off in his prime.

Music for the film 49th Parallel.

I admire Vaughan Williams in the first place for the most straightforward reason: because the sound of so much of his music appeals to me so directly.  He wove together countless melodies, harmonies, textures and cadences in the service of beauty for its own sake.  This beauty often seems so self-evident to me that I would struggle to explain it to someone who does not hear it.  Yet that first beauty, having drawn me in, makes me all the more willing to listen again, more carefully, for details I have missed, or indeed to brave the composer’s more complex or less accessible works.  In that way he has taught me a great deal about the more intellectual side of ‘serious music’: its forms, its structures, and the depth of expression which these make possible.  Thus I have been influenced on one hand by the English Folk-song Suite, which I have loved since I was small, and on the other by the Fourth and Sixth Symphonies, which I have discovered in my twenties: they are the first pieces of music with which I can sympathise without exactly liking.  (Famously, Vaughan Williams himself even said of the fourth symphony that he did not know whether he liked it, but that it was what he meant; I likewise am not sure if I like it, but can see what he means).  Yet in all his works the same personality is discernible in his music, the personality of a companion and a teacher who never forgets the presence of the listener.

The third movement (Scherzo) of the London Symphony, played by the Spanish Radio and Television Orchestra and conducted by Carlos Kalmar.

This equal proficiency in both simplicity and complexity is one sign of another remarkable aspect of Vaughan Williams: his sheer versatility, or his ‘tremendous range’, as Vernon Handley put it.  He wrote music of such different flavours, for so many purposes, and all of it with such convincing results, that it is sometimes hard to believe that a single composer wrote them all.  Is one man really responsible for the tranquil Greensleeves Fantasia and the enthralling anguish of the fourth symphony?  Did the diabolical chortling of Satan’s Dance of Triumph (from Job) come from the same pen as that tiny jewel of an anthem, O Taste and See?  He went off in all sorts of musical directions, but always came back to his own distinctive drawing-board: his work always bears, somewhere or other, the signs and hall-mark of this one personality.  There is Vaughan Williams the collector of folk songs, Vaughan Williams the composer of film scores, Vaughan Williams the compiler of the English Hymnal; his music might be sacred or secular, it might last four minutes or four movements, it might require massed choirs with orchestra underlain by organ, or it might be content with solo violin and piano.  For his harmonies he drew on Tudor polyphony and thirties dance-band music; he experimented with sonority, calling for a wind machine in his Seventh Symphony, a flügelhorn in his Ninth and ‘all the ’phones and ’spiels known to the composer’ in the Eighth.  And then there are the moods that pass over his music, as many and as various as the English weather’s.  It can be serene; it can be furious; it can be reserved; it can be exuberant; it might proliferate with detail or hang quite austerely in the air.  One of the best ways of hearing many of these moods is in that eighth symphony — even in its first movement alone, which is constructed entirely around the very first four notes played:

Another characteristic of his music is — I can think of no subtler word — its manliness.  So much of it seems to express some aspect of, and be so evidently the work of, the heart and spirit of a man, without ever doing so crudely or overbearingly.  In other words, there is somehow a particularly masculine warmth, an outward robustness, a heartiness, a full-bloodedness about it all.  That is not to suggest that his music was not meant for everyone, nor to assume that it was a conscious ambition, but I think it is definitely possible to hear in his work a deep understanding of the vigour, the spirituality, the moods, the quickness, the temper, the restlessness, the passions, and the solitary questing of manhood.

Setting of the Te Deum for the enthronement of Cosmo Gordon Lang as Archbishop of Canterbury in 1928

Then there is his Englishness, the quality of his music which is most often pointed out Vaughan Williams is credited with reviving and developing a particularly English style of music, in contrast with the German idiom that had prevailed before.  Where even Elgar owed a great deal to the tradition of Brahms and Mendelssohn and Beethoven, Vaughan Williams drew instead mainly from the well of Tudor music and traditional English folk-song.  He did not do this in a shallow or jealous sense, but in a search for authenticity, and in a spirit of revival and celebration of the particular, and it worked, for his music sounds like home.  Hear how well his sound-world goes with Shakespeare, or with Chesterton; see how his hymns have passed straight into the canon.  And I think, too, that he sensed the threats to Englishness that were to become concrete — in some cases literally — more or less immediately after his death.  Surely the bleakness all around us, the sullen ugliness of the dual carriageway, and the fast-food outlet, and the retail park — the sheer spiritual exhaustion of modern Britain, sated with banality to the point of grief — is prefigured in much of his music.  Hear, for instance, the desolate passages that close the first movement of the Ninth Symphony:

Against all this, though, Vaughan Williams always opposed the human spirit, in which he found much hope, or at least much worth defending.  One way in which this is made manifest is his treatment of folk-culture and his reverence for traditional folk-songs  There is much to be said for founding ‘high art’ on traditional, unaffected idioms: embellishing and transfiguring familiar, time-worn songs keeps high culture rooted in earth, while elevating and enriching the popular culture.  And even as Vaughan Williams broke new ground with his symphonies and cantatas, Vaughan Williams was content, I think, to be a servant of his age.  His heavy involvement in the local Leith Hill Musical Festival, and his prolific output of hymns and film-scores and ‘practical music’ (notably the Concerto Grosso for musicians of varying accomplishment, or the Household Music written in wartime for whatever instruments were to hand) suggest a profoundly public-spirited man, unashamed of belonging to a particular time and place, and placing his talents at its service.

From all these thoughts I draw the conclusion that, among English and British composers at least, Vaughan Williams is peerless.  Other composers may have shared many of the qualities I have described, but only in Vaughan Williams were they all united.  Sixty years after his death his music seems hardly aged, and is still working its magic on lovers of beauty in new generations.  May it lighten lives for centuries to come.

Ballad from the Suite for Viola and Orchestra

‘Easter, 2015.’

The shadow of the Great War seems to have lain particularly heavy across these last few months.  Perhaps it will not clear until 2018, and probably we would be sadder and wiser if it did not.  Several things have led me to brood on it: listening to a great deal of English music from that era (Grainger, Quilter and early Howells), my ever-deepening interest in Edwardian poetry, including those who were in fact lumped together as the ‘Georgians’ (Masefield, W.W. Gibson, Edward Thomas, Bridges, Drinkwater, etc.) and also an awareness of my own age, which a hundred years ago would surely have destined me for the trenches.  All of these — music, poetry and youth — that war wounded, even where it did not stamp them quite out.

Even Easter is darkened, and though I feel reluctant to post the following poem of Edward Thomas, I think there is a duty to read it this year, and indeed to learn it by heart [1]:

IN MEMORIAM (EASTER, 1915)

The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood

This Eastertide call into mind the men,

Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should

Have gathered them and will do never again.

These lines need to be read twice at least, because there are at least two phases to the blows with which, one by one, they smite the reader.  The writer and journalist Peter Hitchens has on several occasions written powerfully about this poem, and about how ‘it gently takes you by the hand and then suddenly, fiercely makes you weep' [2].  Indeed it does, and in several ways.  For one thing, it seems to rest upon three wholesome English words, ‘left', ‘should' and ‘never', whose plainness seems to rarefy into gleaming rock under the poem's immense weight.  Nevertheless, the poem's full sense is hidden until ruthlessly unveiled by those very last words 'never again'.  

Then even these words let fall a second blow, as modern readers realise with Hitchens that ‘No Englishman gathers flowers for his sweethearts in the woods any more. That world is dead. Everyone who lived in it is dead, having had no time to pass on its customs to his sons and daughters’ [3].  This poem measures and records the extent of the war’s pernicious reach: into the very earth of an English woodland floor and, almost unseen, into the present day.  Most men these days, no doubt along with their girlfriends, would squirm and scoff at the idea of gathering flowers — and at the old music and old verse — and we know they would — and that war is why.

Flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood, Easter, 2015.

Everything in this poem’s vision is upside-down and back-to-front, so the unexpected presence of those flowers becomes the proof of the unnatural, indeed inhuman, absence of young men, and an encounter with a clump of flowers begets thoughts of distance, dissipation and death.  It is also worth remembering that the poem was written in Eastertide.  Thomas has not only the ordinary life of ordinary folk in mind; he surely sees a hideous inversion of Easter itself.  Where Mary Magdalene came upon an empty tomb that proclaimed the nearness of the resurrected Christ, Thomas finds a flourishing flower-bed declaring the end of England.  Where Easter was the day of Christianity’s birth, was the war the death of Christendom?  

This is Peter Hitchens’ view: he gives the Great War as the first point at which Britain, and indeed Europe, ceased as a whole to believe Christianity seriously.  He thinks it ‘safe to say that the two great victorious wars of the twentieth century did more damage to my own country than any other single force.  The churches were full before 1914, half-empty after 1919, and three-quarters empty after 1945.  And I would add that, by all but destroying British Christianity, these wars may come to destroy the spirit of the country’ [4].  I suppose there is little surprise that the British people as a whole lost their faith afterwards.  I may not praise them for it, but neither do I feel willing to blame them.

And yet, and yet… there is still a faith to uphold; the churches await us still; there is a crucifix in them all; the empty tomb remains; the old question is still asked of us.  It may be that the Great War has so changed the course of history that it will in time bring this country, even Europe, to an end.  This seems likely, for in many ways ours is a dying civilisation, and there is much sorrow in store for those of us who are fond of Britain.  Believers in God, however, must take themselves in hand.  There is plenty of hope in this country still, if sought in the right places, and the Church as a whole is alive and healthy, and forbids us to despair.  And even if all civilisations rise and fall, Easter remains undiminished.  All the sins of men were paid for on the Cross; even the Great War was paid for on the Cross, and Easter triumphs over even the Great War and even all the sins of men.  That is not said glibly by me, but plainly by Christ.  The vision of Easter remains clear, if we can manage, and have the courage, to behold it.  

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[1] Thomas, Edward.  Collected Poems. (London, Faber, 2004).  p. 63.  See also ‘The Cherry Trees’, p. 112.

[2] http://hitchensblog.mailonsunday.co.uk/2013/01/how-shall-we-mark-the-centenary-of-the-great-war.html

[3] http://hitchensblog.mailonsunday.co.uk/2014/05/how-do-you-make-grown-men-weep.html

[4] Hitchens, Peter. The Rage Against God (London: Bloomsbury, 2010). p. 57.

Have you clipped your church today?

Ash Wednesday is tomorrow: a forty-day fast is nearly upon us, and we gulp at the prospect.  In the Middle Ages, the gulp was so palpable that they really made something of it:  in a last outburst of frivolity and feasting before Lent’s wilderness, down went all the food that would otherwise waste.  Hence Carnival — carne vale — farewell to meat.

For centuries, several English towns saw no reason not to mark Shrove Tuesday by transforming the entire parish into a football-pitch and the whole population into two opposing teams.  Shrovetide Football lasts for at least an afternoon, is played between two goals several miles apart and is otherwise entirely devoid of rules.  Here it is being played in Chester-le-Street in 1927:

Sad to say, the various drawbacks to this tradition (as portrayed in the reel!) became obvious in the end even to the furthest-turned blind eye.  The game in Chester-le-Street was banned in 1932.  It survives, however, in Ashbourne in Derbyshire, whose townsfolk remain resolutely boisterous.

Depending on where you live, Shrove Tuesday is also the day on which to ‘clip’ or clasp the parish church — joining hands in a great ring around church and singing hymns.  This is still done in several parishes.  Still, there is the sad thought that in many places the shrunken congregation must struggle to compass the girth of their church.

I see in this tradition an instinctive and affectionate gravitation to the natural heart of a village or town?  Surely there is a hearty rightness about it.  A church may of course be a ‘serious house on serious earth’ as Philip Larkin put it, but it is also a place of vigour and life, somewhere we are glad to be.  Why shouldn’t we, in the right spirit and at the right time, turn the church into a kind of toy, as children play with their fathers?  This is why I rejoice in the ornamentation and decoration of churches, and the continual additions and alterations of paintings and engravings — even if apparently needless or useless — even if roughly done!  And why I rejoice in the sound of bell-ringing and in terrific and uplifting streams of notes pouring from belfries.  It proves that a church, far from the austere and artificial stereotype in many a modern mind’s eye, is  to be lived in, to be loved, and to be as much mankind’s house for God as it is God’s house for mankind. 

‘Clipping the church’ — St Lawrence, Rode, by W.W. Wheatley.  (from the Wikimedia Commons)